The Night of the Drunken Tags
by Gunney
Summary: Or what happens when Gunney tries to put a drinking scene into every episode.


_**Note from the Author...who is sober, we swear: **I have been slowly working my way through the stories available here at Fan Fiction and have been finding other great stories on various boards. I will probably not be able to read them all so I have no way of knowing if this idea is similar to others. However, I hope you enjoy the spirit of this series of one shots. Deana said that I should write episode tags, and I thought...I don't think I know how to do that. Then I noticed how many times the boys are enjoying a celebratory drink at the end of each episode and...voila! Drunken tags! Each installment will include a relevant scene from the TV show first, then proceed with the wee bit I've added. Enjoy and keep writing!_

* * *

The Night of the Inferno - Drunken Tag

_The challenging case had ended. Wing Fat, also known as the true Juan Manolo, had been defeated and for the time being the United States no longer called for the help of its two premiere secret service agents. James West, Artemus Gordon, and James' latest conquest Lydia Monteran celebrated the end of the successful endeavor with champagne in the varnish car._

_As Arte popped the cork with an exuberant laugh, Jim sat back with his arms crossed grinning. Arte tossed him a glass and Jim leaned forward for Arte to fill it, moments before Lydia paraded towards them with a flourish and a hummed fanfare. The dress she wore belonged on a school marm, light blue with long sleeves, ruffles on the bottom and a white triangle of muslin covering her chest and throat._

_Both men stood, Arte chuckling, "Well..." even as Lydia looked down at herself, hands on her hips, and made a discouraging noise of mild disgust._

_"Arte..." Jim said, "Is this the best you can do?"_

_"That's the best $1.98 gown made in Chicago," Arte said, aloof as he poured a second glass of champagne._

_"Lydia," Jim said, waiting until the young woman lifted her head and smiled softly at him. "Come here."_

_She stepped towards him, his arms coming up over her shoulders then to the back of her dress, where with one deft motion-as if he'd done it before- Jim tore off the white ruffled collar of the dress leaving Lydia with a daring and attractive neckline._

_As she laughed, blushing slightly, and pulled the top skirt up to her waist, tucking it into a more acceptable style, Lydia said, "You know what? You're perfect."_

_Jim smirked and turned to look to his partner. "Takes talent. Some people have it, some people don't."_

_Arte could only hide his own smirk as he watched the two together. They made quite the pair, he had to admit._

_"Champagne?" Arte asked, handing Lydia the freshly poured glass._

_"Oh yes indeed," Lydia said leaning in take it. "Why didn't you tell me you own one of these?" She asked, gesturing to the train car, eyeing Jim over the rim of the glass as she took a sip._

_"We don't..." Arte said, finally reaching for his own glass, "It belongs to a friend."_

_The look of devilish delight entered Lydia's eyes as she asked, "Oh? What's your friend's name?"_

_"Sam..." Arte said._

* * *

"Poooooor Sam..."

"Arte?"

"Pooor, pooor Sam."

"Hey Arte, what are you doin' out here?"

"I's just thinkin' about...ummm."

James West, buzzing still from the bottle of champagne that he and Miss Lydia Monteran had managed together to kill, sat down on the rear platform of the varnish car next to his partner and quietly peeled the clutching fingers away from the neck of a second bottle of champagne.

Most of that was gone too, but there was just enough to fill the glass Jim had brought with him and he invited himself to it.

With Lydia passed out in his own sleeping berth, there had been little else in the car to keep Jim's attention and he had realized, surprised, that his partner was no longer in sight. The train was in motion, traveling through the night at an easy 40 mph, so the only logical place for his partner to have been was the platform. The breeze was cool and smelled of pines and dew and the occasional blast of animal musk.

Jim sipped the last of the champagne, wincing at how warm it had become and the mildly flat flavor as a result. When his glass was dry and nothing more could be found in the bottle he set both items beside him on the platform and looked back to his partner.

Dark, almost black eyes were glittering behind mostly closed eyelids.

"Arte.." Jim said, realizing a moment later that he hadn't said it loud enough.

"Arte!" He tried again shouting this time, but not getting a reaction. He swung his hand out and slapped his knuckles against Gordon's shoulder and that time Arte nearly fell off the back of the train. Once they were both, again firmly planted on the platform, Jim leaned in and said, "Hey Arte..."

"WHAT Jim!?" Arte asked, exasperated at the bothersome voice that had been distracting him from his ruminations endlessly, and had almost dumped him off a moving train car.

James couldn't help but grin at his partner, before he tried to pull it back in and ask the semi-serious question that had popped into his brain when he walked out in the first place.

"I's wondering..."

"Yeah..."

"Where did Uncle Sam come from?"

Arte thought about it for a moment, taking in a deep breath that prompted a hiccup. He went to drown the sound in his glass but found only a small amount of liqour left, which had since been occupied by a fly.

Arte made a face, chasing the dead insect around the pool of wine with a finger as he slurred. "War of 1812. Any other questions?" When he finally managed to get the fly out he quickly drank the champagne, as if fearing that another fly would take the place of the first if he drank too slowly.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why...is the answer War of 1812."

Dramatically Arte sighed and reached for the brass grate that served as a safe guard for the platform, levering himself upright before carefully picking his way over his partner's legs and opening the door to the varnish car. The rocking of the train delayed him in entering for a few seconds but he finally managed to step into the car and went to the ice bucket, frowning sourly at the over turned bottle there before he put down his glass and tried to remember if he had bought two or three.

"Who's Uncle is he anyway?" Jim called, peering through the open door, still seated on the platform.

"Aw...James..." Arte whined to himself then finally brightened when he remembered that he had, indeed, bought three bottles of champagne, and the third one he had left to chill in some ice, in a basin, in the supply room.

He hunted it down in short order, popped the cork and had spilled some of the frothy liquid into his glass before he managed to sit at the table bearing the scattered remains of their celebratory meal.

"Is there an Aunt? Does he have children? Do we have cousins?" Jim was asking, working his way into the car, now that he had a reasonable goal to attain. As Jim flopped down in the chair opposite him, Arte filled his glass obligingly, his toungue sticking out as he focused on not spilling any of the crisp, perfectly chilled liquid.

"Why...are you asking...all theese questions, Jim?" Arte demanded, sipping from his glass and closing his eyes.

"Well..." Jim sighed, his voice pitching higher before he took a sip of the carbonated beverage. He looked around the car and shrugged. "We're using his train, an' all his stuff. Don'tyathink we oughta get to know him a little better?"

"What d'ya wanna do, write him a letter?"

It could have been agreement that Arte saw in response, or it could have been Jim, in his inebriated state, loosely bouncing his head in sync with the rocking of the train car. But either way, Arte responded with, "Okay...s'we'll write 'im a letter." And he stood and stumbled, glass still in hand, to the desk, collecting pen, paper, and ink.

* * *

A week later Colonel Richmond was surprised to receive a letter in the mail, primarily because the state of the envelope itself; smudged by some sort of liquid that had been spilled on it, slightly dirty, and with the most atrocious penmanship he had seen in ages, should have made the letter, in any other case, undeliverable.

Never the less he opened it and pulled out the equally as poorly written paragraph.

The writing itself slanted up the page starting at the halfway point, the ends of the sentences often running off the page altogether as if that sheet had been laid over top another one, and the writer hadn't been aware that he was leaving the confines of the parchment.

Squinting at the scrawls of ink he finally made out the following:

_"Dear Uncle Sam,_

_We hope you, Aunt Martha, and the kids are doing well._

_We wish to thank you for the use of your train, and the cham-_

_-the salary that you pay us. We wouldn't argue if you decided to pay us mo-_

_Sincerely yours,"_

It took him a half-an-hour to make out the first smudge of ink at the bottom, finally realizing that it read "Artemus Gordon".

The second smudge, he could only assume, read "Jim West".

Tucking the letter back into the envelope he caught a whiff of stale alcohol and carefully sniffed at the paper. Champagne? Yes...that would explain quite a few things.

Before he turned his attention back to the next case he intended to hand the two agents, Col. Richmond considered long and hard whether or not Uncle Sam would write back.


End file.
